The fine mathematics, the rhetoric and sophistry of a horrendous construct
The drifting flight of a lazing bat
Fine flying vermin glutted on lesser stock
The night whispers such mystery-
Whispers "Science;" for this is value,
There is a tree on a dry slope, hand with dull life and stooped even in youth;
It bears but two scarlet leaves and cares not for the rumors of bats above.
Its leaves it will shed, and will stand over them as they rot patiently below
On its middle-ground it bows, pinched
Between frigid concrete and billowing fog
And cares not for rumors or for "Science"
A drifting vagueness called a bat, or sophistry, or worth
The construct fails somewhere between the leathery snap of a wing and crackle of a dead leaf.